Gong Gong’s house smells like waffles. When Rooney and my team arrive for our Sunday Sundaes party, it’s the first thing they all notice. That, and Sprinkles, who I always bring with me to Gong Gong’s. She’s scooping rainbow sprinkles out of a bowl with her paw like it’s a fun game. Her tail narrowly misses the stack of waffles on the counter. Next to those are tubs of homemade ice cream and smaller bowls with all the toppings you could want: sprinkles, cherries, chocolate chips, chocolate sauce, caramel sauce, marshmallows, mixed nuts, whipped cream, and cut fruit.
Once a month, it’s just me and Gong Gong who do this. Today, Gong Gong is excited for new people to try out our ice cream flavors. We made matcha, blueberry muffin, and red bean, since he wanted to include “a little something red for Rooney.” I purposely don’t read into the fact that red bean ice cream is what we ate together in New York.
Nell, Maria, and Brian have come, as well as Toby and Mac, FATE’s operations systems engineer. The people I work with most but who I don’t know very well. I introduce the team to Gong Gong, and he tells them that formalities aren’t needed with him and that they can call him Bohai. At this, Rooney makes an unreadable expression.
While Gong Gong pours batter into the waffle maker, I makesure everyone has what they need. Bowls, spoons, napkins. We move through the line, piling ice cream on top of waffles, and gather around the kitchen table. Earlier, I pulled chairs from around the house to accommodate the eight of us. It’s a tight squeeze or, as Rooney’s calling it, “cozy.”
“This was so nice of you to invite us into your home, Bohai,” Maria says.
“Yeah, thanks for setting this up, Jackson,” Brian says. “I was certain this would be a freeze-dried ice cream party with waffles, but admittedly I’m glad it’s not.”
As Rooney passes me, she lowers her voice and says, “It’s nice to see your Spot.” She settles into a chair a couple of seats away from me. Great. Distance is good.
“It’s best when the ice cream soaks into the waffle,” Gong Gong says, getting everyone’s attention. “But you’ve reminded me that freeze-dried ice cream makes for excellent toppings. I’ll crumble some.”
I observe the situation, suddenly hyperaware. I see Gong Gong and his house through my team’s eyes. In his late eighties, Gong Gong looks like a shorter James Hong. He’s smiley and cheerful, which didn’t always come easily to him. Grandma died in her late fifties shortly after I was born, something Gong Gong didn’t see coming. He thought they’d have not just years together, but decades. He hasn’t remarried since, and every day he wakes up choosing to be optimistic. If he can’t control anything else, he says that he can at least have a say over how he reacts to what else life throws at him.
Another thing he chooses to control: his nautical-themed house decor. Now that Gong Gong can’t spend as much time out at sea as he used to, he brings the ocean to him. Assembled wooden sailboats and ships are positioned in front of the windows throughout the house, buoys and life preserver rings tucked into corners andhanging on walls. Even the round wooden kitchen table we’re all crammed around has a compass image engraved into the top. Why is it that the people I surround myself with love a good theme?
I’m pulled out of my thoughts by Rooney, who’s saying my name.
“Did you hear that? Toby and Mac have a band. You’ll never guess what they’re called,” she says, her fork mid-lift with a piece of waffle on it.
It could be anything. I shake my head, not even trying to speculate.
“Red String Theorists,” she says slowly, her eyes widening. Sprinkles has taken a liking to her. She’s purring in her lap and kneading her fuzzy sweater.
“Red for Mars?” I ask, venturing a guess.
“That’s right. Rooney says you play bass, Jackson,” Mac says, gathering ice cream on his spoon. “If you ever want to jam sometime, let us know. We play local shows every now and then for fun.”
“Oh, maybe. That could be cool. And you can all actually call me Jack,” I tell them. “Let me know when you practice, and I’ll see if I can come.” The jazz club in New York was the one and only time I’ve played bass in public outside of high school. I didn’t have plans to increase that number.
Rooney openly smiles about this.
Mac and Toby look slightly stunned that I’ve agreed. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah,” they say over one another. “We have a show at the beginning of December. We’ll… text you?”
I grin. “That would be great.”
Suddenly, Gong Gong speaks up. “Oh, Rooney! I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier. Jack, would you please grab Skipper?”
Rooney glances between the two of us.
I don’t know how I’ve forgotten this or failed to mention it to her. I close my eyes and do as Gong Gong says. In his study is thestring art seahorse that I ordered back in July. When I walk into the kitchen with it, everyone’s silent in anticipation. Or confusion. Probably both.
When Rooney sees it, her eyes go even wider. “Wait, you’re Bohai from Alhambra! Your name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. You ordered this months ago. Before I got the NASA call, I think.”
Gong Gong smiles. “Actually, it was a gift from Jack.”
“I placed the order before I knew… before you were officially chosen,” I tell her. My tone comes off unexpectedly defensive. Maybe she’s thinking that this is a sign. But it was a choice I made, and I needed to get Gong Gong a gift anyway.
“The shading on that is incredible, Rooney,” Nell says as she sets her spoon on her plate. “You take commissions? I’d love to have something made. Unless you’re too busy, of course, with the program.”
Rooney finally tears her eyes from Skipper. “No! I’m not too busy. I’d love to make anything you want.”
Nell looks pleased.
“Those are pretty good. So you do animal portraits in addition to installations?” Toby asks. He wipes his mustache with a dolphin-patterned cloth napkin.
